Avatar Of The Gods: Fas Fortuna
by The Duchess Of The Dark
Summary: Sequel to 'Avatar Of The Gods: Arcanum'. Ardeth Bey pursues the Horn Of Isis to England, determined to keep it from the White Lady. A shock awaits him as his assumptions are turned on their head.
1. London

Title: Avatar Of The Gods: Fas Fortuna

Title: Avatar Of The Gods: Fas Fortuna

Author: The Duchess Of The Dark   
Teaser: Post 'The Mummy Returns'. Ardeth Bey travels to England, determined to gain possession of the Horn Of Isis before the enigmatic White Lady. A shock awaits him. 

Rating: PG 13

Disclaimer: All recognisable characters belong to Universal Pictures. [Isis, Queen among Goddesses,][1] belongs to herself. Rhiannon Ward is mine. So are Khepri, Layla, Runihura and Sebak.

Genre: Action/adventure and hints of more to come. For more fiction (not fanfic) visit my page at Illona's Place Vampires [www.bloodlust-uk.com/helenmurphyfiction.htm][2]

Archive: Yes, but ask me first, please.   
Notes: This is the sequel to ['Avatar Of The Gods: Arcanum'][3]. The title is Latin, meaning 'divine fate' or 'command of fate'. 'Arcanum' contains an extensive index of definitions & names that I don't want to repeat here – it takes up too much room! If you want to know what an Arabic/Egyptian name means, or what certain items of clothing are, consult that…

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Kensington, London

It was raining, fulfilling the expectation of visitors that it always did so in Britain. A light, warm summer drizzle that surreptitiously soaked through clothing, it darkened pavements and varnished foliage a deeper, lustrous green. Ardeth Bey inhaled the scent of wet concrete, guttering gas lamps and the day's traffic, watching the golden light from the windows of the magnificent Edwardian town house across the street. It was late, some considerable time past midnight, but the lively party showed few signs of abating. Shifting position infinitesimally, concealed behind a wall, he found he was entertained watching the gentlemen in evening suits and ladies in cocktail dresses as they danced and gossiped. 

As with his last trip to England, he found night the best time to move unhindered through the streets. Blacks, Chinese and Indians were usual sights around London, if not in the majority, but a Bedouin with a tattooed face was something to be stared at. Presently, the black painted door opened, flooding the night with a stream of canary yellow light and merry, inebriated voices. Demure in white lace cap and pinafore, a maid handed out coats; mink or fox fur for ladies, fine worsted wool for gentlemen. Private, chauffeur-driven cars and rumbling taxi cabs pulled up, whisking tired revellers away to their homes and neatly made beds. 

Ardeth waited patiently for the last guest to leave, a portly, white-whiskered man in his late sixties with a thread-veined red face that bespoke a fondness for alcohol. The front door slammed, the brass knocker rattling against the painted wood, and the night was quiet again, save for the soft patter of drizzle. Some minutes later, the light winked out in the front windows, a silhouetted figure drawing across heavy brocade curtains. When there was no further movement within the house, Ardeth looked around for chance observers. Seeing nobody, he quickly crossing the street and stole up to the front of the house, feet soundless on the white marble step. A lovingly polished brass nameplate above the doorbell proclaimed the resident as the Hon. Miss Rhiannon Ward. The house, located in an exclusive suburb, indicated wealth and standing.

Touching a fingertip to the nameplate, Bey pondered the relative uncommoness of an unmarried woman owning her own home. He understood it was traditional for a woman to live with her family until she married. Meeting Evelyn O'Connell had broadened his perspective on what she called the 'modern woman' and dispelled many of his preconceptions, but he still found some English and American ways odd. Med-Jai women were afforded much more personal freedom than in other Bedouin tribes, as were ancient Egyptian women in millennia gone by, but it was unheard of for them to own a dwelling. 

Glancing up at the second and third storeys to check for light and movement, he slid around to the bottom window. It would be quicker and easier all round if he simply purloined the Horn, which he was fairly sure lay somewhere within the house. The day before he had visited the British Museum in the heart of the city, listening to the chatter of the staff as he pretended to examine the desiccated mummies and incomplete chunks of hieroglyphic masonry. Staring fixedly at a shrunken tobacco brown mummy, he remembered how it had screamed and frenziedly scrabbled against the glass case, awakened by the spell used to rouse Imhotep. When nobody mentioned the Horn Of Isis, he knew Miss Ward had not yet presented her treasure to the pompous Egyptologists who comprised the Bainbridge Scholars group. 

Beneath the deft attentions of his fingers, the window clicked and swung open. Swinging his leg over the ledge, he climbed in and quietly shut it behind him. Finding himself in a well-appointed parlour with a white marble Art Deco fireplace, he looked around. Though the décor was typically modern, with plain eggshell blue walls, white skirting and ceiling, with dark wood furniture, many objects were not. A small, unobtrusive basalt statuette of Osiris stood on the hearth, no more than a metre tall. An excised cartouche hung on the far wall, the carved hieroglyphs erased by shadow. A large, octagonal chest, embellished with gold and what appeared to be gemstones, sat on a side table next to one of a pair of plush velvet wingchairs. 

_Expensive trinkets to have lying around,_ Ardeth thought, bending to glance at the chest, half expecting it was a reproduction set with coloured glass. _And all genuine… this chest alone would warrant an exhibition at the museum, and yet it sits in her house… curious…_

Reaching for the chest, he lifted the lid and looked inside, finding it full of pot-pourri that gave off a subdued, sweet scent. He frowned, finding the fragrance unsettlingly familiar, picking up a crinkled bud the colour of paprika that crumbled to flakes in his fingers. Hearing a sound within the house, he froze, straining his ears. He would rather not have a maid wander in, see him and immediately scream loud enough to wake the entire neighbourhood. Minutes crawled by and the house remained silent save for the measured ticking of a cherrywood clock on the mantel. 

Satisfied there was nobody up, Ardeth moved to the door and slipped into the hallway, taking careful steps across the black and white tiled floor. A swift exploration revealing nothing more than a large dining room littered with party debris, a book-crammed study and a passage leading to the kitchen, he approached the stairs. Listening to the restful quiet of an occupied house late at night, honed senses alert for signs of movement, he set one booted foot upon the bottom stair. The wood creaked, loud in the noiselessness, and he winced, ascending to the next step. He had reached the bend in the staircase when he happened to glance down into the hallway. The door to the scullery was open. He frowned, certain he had closed it on leaving.

A defensive growl, resonating through a deep chest and quasi-feline throat, echoed from the foot of the stairs. Bey turned, black eyes widening in horror as the sphinx-like djinn surged up the staircase, razor claws gouging up great curls of wood. Ripping both Brownings from his bandoleer, he shot the creature four times, bursts of fire flashing at the muzzles. Scrambling up the remaining stairs to the first floor, he slipped and fell backwards. A white dart of pain punctured the back of his skull, sight momentarily fuzzing. His guns spun away across the varnished wooden floor, clattering against the skirting. Driven back by the bullet impacts, the djinn howled, enraged, and tumbled down to the ground floor, crashing through the spindles. Snarling like a basketful of panthers, she crouched low, all carved granite flanks and fury, and sprang. 

Vision dominated by silky rough golden fur, sleek sliding muscle and light-glancing claws, Ardeth rolled to one side. Thudding onto the landing where he had lain, the floorboards splintering beneath its paws, the djinn howled and turned a lightning swift circle. 

"What on earth is going on?!" a female voice demanded loudly from the second floor, accompanied by hurrying feet.

Educated in timbre, irritated in tone, it clearly belonged to the mistress of the house. Molten eyes snapping towards the source of the voice, lips peeling back over clashing teeth, the djinn rumbled like an earth tremor. 

"MISS WARD!" Bey yelled in English, clambering to his feet, feeling the warm trickle of blood down his neck. "Stay where you are! DO NOT COME DOWN!"

Scimitar in hand, he dropped his weight back onto his heels, ignoring the pounding ache and hazy vision that accompanied a concussion. Tail switching angrily, plumed at the end like a lion's, the djinn blurred and blocked out the night. Hot feline breath scalded his face as his back thumped against the unyielding floor, tearing cloth and jagged pain streaking across his torso. Deafened by a cacophony of furious snarling, pinned by the creature's weight, he jammed the point of his scimitar into its belly and slashed left to right. Rearing back, it batted the weapon away as if it were a pocketknife, one gargantuan taloned paw whistling back to strike.

"Enough!" the command rolled across the landing with indisputable authority. "Khepri – leave him be, there's a girl."

Gulping to fill his screaming lungs as the dead weight of the djinn lifted from his chest, Ardeth lay prostrate. He lifted a hand and saw it glisten redly with his own blood, abruptly feeling dizzy. A pair of female feet walked around his head, clad in green velvet slippers, and stopped at his side. He peered up through the landing gloom at the woman, who wore a nightgown and robe of matching hue. Dressed for bed, hair gathered loosely at the nape of her neck, luminous eyes bare of Bedouin kohl, it took him several seconds to recognise her.

"You!" he rasped accusingly, unconsciously using his native tongue.

"We do seem to meet under the most unfortunate circumstances, sayadi," she replied mildly, watching dispassionately as he struggled to sit up, grimacing and holding his heavily bleeding chest.

Holding out her open hand, she blinked once and a life-sized cow horn fashioned from softly burnished platinum appeared, floating above her palm. Inscribed with countless tiny hieroglyphs, it radiated an eldritch silver light. 

"I assume this is what you're looking for?"

The Med-Jai did not reply, a sudden defeated slump of his shoulders saying what his mouth did not. His eyes crinkled shut, then reopened, filled with resolve. His scimitar lay within diving reach.

"Take it."

Astounded, unsure if he had misheard, Ardeth merely stared at her. Lips quirking in a brief, almost-smile, she offered it to him. Suspiciously, he got to his feet, disregarding the agonising pain the movement caused in his wounds. The djinn watched him, unblinking, ready to rip out his throat. Slowly, he reached out, eyes narrowed a little against the Horn's glow. 

"A word of caution before you touch it," she said levelly. "I assume you can read what is engraved around the base?"

Focussing on the series of hieroglyphs, Ardeth squinted, then his fingers curled and dropped to his side. If he had touched the Horn of Isis, it would have instantly killed him. The inscription read 'No hand of man shall grasp the Horn, lest he seek death. The Horn belongs to she who bears the mark of Isis'. 

"So you see, it is mine, and no other's. The power it contained is mine also."

Ardeth did not miss the past tense, casting quick glances towards the next floor and the stairs. The djinn yawned, lioness lazy, gaping maw studded with vicious, wetly gleaming teeth. Nobody else had appeared to investigate the disturbance, though such a house required several members of staff. What had happened to Rhiannon Ward and her household was open to debate. Sharp mind racing, Bey saw his Brownings lying on the floor several feet behind the djinn's rump.

"What have you done with Miss Ward?" he demanded.

The white lady appeared momentarily bewildered, her brow crimping, then she threw back her head and laughed aloud. Khepri, now silent and watchful, sat at her mistress's side, only her sinuous tail in motion. 

"My dear, noble Mr Bey," she said, in English. "I _am_ Rhiannon Ward! Surely you bullied that out of that fat, greedy antiques dealer?"

She seemed highly amused and folded her hand around the Horn, shutting off its corona. Transferring it to the crook of her arm like a baby or a coddled lap dog, she stroked the blunt tip, running the pad of her finger around and around. 

"We did not have opportunity," Ardeth observed darkly, switching to English. "You killed him, as you did the staff attending the Royal Ibis."

"What?!" 

Snapping incandescent, her emerald eyes slitted with dismay and sudden anger. At her feet, the djinn growled and shifted restlessly, great jaws click snapping as she hungrily eyed the unarmed Bedouin. The surrounding air crackling with a palpable aura of power, the white lady's jaw tightened.

"I did not kill those people," she hissed, her voice taking on the familiar unearthly resonance that made Bey's head ring like it was captured inside a silver bell. "What cause had I?"

Visibly furious, shoulders rigid beneath the shantung silk dressing gown she wore like a queen's state robes, her cheeks coloured a pale raspberry.

"You tell me, lady," he retorted, part of him questioning the wisdom of provoking a being that could undoubtedly kill him in an instant. 

"Silence!" she snapped, then muttered a command to the djinn in the ancient tongue, placing the Horn of Isis between her jaws like she was a dog taking a stick.

When the djinn failed to respond, aristocratic features pinched with reluctance, she scowled and repeated the order, throwing up a hand. Dipping her head deferentially, Khepri rumbled unhappily and vanished where she stood. Uneasy at the sudden dismissal, Ardeth eyed her warily, gaze once more skipping to his fallen weapons. 

"Much as you disbelieve, stubborn Med-Jai, I am whom I claim to be," she said, dangerously calm. "And I didn't kill Fahrer or the hotel staff – may Ra strike me dead if I lie."

Seeing him peering around her to the indistinct lumps of his Brownings in the gloom, she made an exasperated sound and snapped her fingers. Ardeth jumped as they appeared in his hands, the metal oddly warm and tingling against his skin. Instinctively, his index finger looped through the triggers.

"Have your way!" she declared, lifting her hand.

Against his will, Bey's right arm rose until the muzzle of the gun was level with the centre of her forehead. She moved forward, slippered feet soundless, until there was scant inches between her brow and the gun. Dark head bowed, lashes jet crescents against her opaline cheek, she spread her hands in acquiescence.

"Shoot me!" she commanded, with such vigour that Ardeth barely stopped his trigger finger contracting. "I won't stop you. If you're so convinced I'm a monster in the mould of your cursed Imhotep – killer of the defenceless, just shoot me and be done with it!"

Lids sliding back, emerald orbs lifting, she stared down the length of his gun and into his eyes. Arms flung out, regal and composed, the shadows formed sweeping wings against the cream plaster wall at her back. Transfixed, breath coming quick and shallow, Ardeth could hear the rapid thunder of his heart. He had lost a great deal of blood and taken a blow to the head, the soporific song of concussion crooning in his ears. 

"Shoot me," she whispered, voice cashmere soft, almost reverent. "Shoot me and take off my head with your scimitar. Do what you know is right, Med-Jai, holy warrior of god."

Feeling the individual muscles tighten along his arm, shift and contraction of bicep, tricep, forearm and wrist, Ardeth checked himself. He could feel the indomitable force of her will, could see it contained behind the clear panes of her eyes, but it was not brought to bear against him. The choice was his. Indecision warring on his features, mouth turned down at the corners, brow ruckled, he took a deep breath. Suddenly greasy slick in his palm, stinking of gun oil, the Browning weighed heavy, and he readjusted his grip. Oval face alabaster smooth, eerily expressionless as an ivory theatre mask, she waited. A tiny seed of doubt that had nagged him from the outset flourished in his mind. Exhaling, long and resolvedly, he lowered the gun. 

"I cannot in all conscience shoot you, lady," he admitted tiredly. "Whoever you are."

Serenely, she lowered her arms, head held askance as she regarded him, noting the sudden blanch of colour from his face. Crooking a finger, she summoned his scimitar to her hand and offered it to him hilt first, a peaceful gesture. Fingers clumsy with dulling pain, something he knew was not a good sign, Ardeth jammed his guns back into the bandoleer, wondering if it was him or the landing that was swaying. Taking back his sword, he returned it to his sash, not knowing what to expect next.

"You're hurt, sayadi," she observed, gesturing to his bloodied hands and sodden clothing. "And I don't want you bleeding to death on my floor – it's just been polished."

"Then I shall take my leave," he returned, acerbically polite. "Rather than inconvenience you further."

Her agate green eyes hardened ominously, then sparkled with a smile that did not quite reach her mouth. The Med-Jai had spirit in abundance.

"No, you've lost too much blood to go wandering about," she said. Her expression softened, and she added gently, "Stay – at least long enough for me to tend your wounds. You know the fever that results from such injuries."

Bey nodded reluctant agreement, realising he would find neither the herbs nor the skills in London to treat the claw gashes. 

"Very well," he said gruffly. "Though I can't promise not to shoot you if the need arises, lady."

"My name is Rhiannon," she reminded. "And I would expect nothing less, Med-Jai."

She reached out and placed a steadying hand on his shoulder, a gesture that startled him. At once, a current of reassuring warmth flowed from her palm, enveloping him.

"Not everything not of this plane needs vanquishing and consigning to the underworld," she said softly. "Let me dress those cuts, and you may ask me anything you like. I promise I'll answer truthfully."

Suspicious, but curious, and very much aware he needed answers as much as medical care, Ardeth Bey allowed the white lady to steer him to a side room.

*

   [1]: http://www.ancientegypt.co.uk/gods/explore/images/stisis.jpg
   [2]: http://www.bloodlust-uk.com/helenmurphyfiction.htm
   [3]: http://www.fanfiction.net/index.fic?action=story-read&storyid=294245



	2. Predicament Of The Goddess

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A soft, contented purring sounded in his ear, accompanied by the tickle of whiskers. Drowsily swiping a hand to relieve the tickle, Ardeth was jolted to full consciousness by the playful bat of a small feline paw straight across his nose. Eyes snapping open, all he could see was creamy white fur and large, inquisitive sapphire blue eyes. The Persian cat meowed triumphantly, pleased her plaything was awake, and rubbed her head against his chin. Absently scratching behind the cat's ear, who responded by walking down his chest and settling across his stomach, he realised he was lying in a huge, wooden-framed bed. Pushing down the crisp white sheets and patchwork quilt, he cautiously sat up. Giving a plaintive meow, the cat shuffled down into his lap. The room was spacious, with a high, airy ceiling and honey rich oak panelling on the walls. Buttercream yellow early morning sunlight filtered through the heavy brocade curtains at the large, leadlit bay window.

_Where in Allah's name am I?_ he wondered, knowing the room was too big to belong to the town house. 

He frowned, struggling to remember what had occurred. Try as he might, he could not recall anything beyond Rhiannon Ward grinding bitter-smelling herbs to a thick paste in a pestle and bringing in a basin of steaming hot water. Belatedly realising that each breath he took failed to precipitate eye-watering pain, he lifted a hand to his chest and pressed the bandages experimentally. Glancing across the room, attention lingering over the sumptuous Tiraz wall hanging, intricate floral design accented with gold silk thread, he saw his djellaba and bandoleer slung over a chair. To his relief, his Brownings were in their holsters and his scimitar lay wrapped in a red silk sash across the seat. 

The cat, which was contentedly washing itself, licking first one paw, then the other before scrubbing at its ears, looked up expectantly. Leaping from the bed, it padded delicately across the floor to the door and sat down, staring up at the handle. The door opened, oiled mechanism whispering, and swung open. Rhiannon Ward entered quietly, dressed in a black velvet thobe embroidered with silver water lilies, neat doeskin boots on her feet. Purring like a traction engine, the cat wound itself around her ankles, leaving traces of white fur on the velvet. Bending, she petted the animal's head and shooed it affectionately out of the room. Sensing she was being watched, she turned with a slight smile.

"Good morning, sayadi," she greeted in Arabic. "Did Ghost wake you?"

Surmising she was referring to the friendly Persian, Ardeth nodded, taking the cat's reaction to her presence as promising. Cats were anathema to evil, kept by Egyptians for countless generations to guard against the supernatural. A scrabbling came from the other side of the door, accompanied by a miserable, throaty meow. Ghost clearly disliked not being the centre of attention.

"You expected her to hiss, perhaps?" Ward sounded tolerantly amused. "Maybe run around with her fur bristling? I'm sorry to disappoint… should I screech and turn to dust now?"

"And soil that fine carpet?" Bey asked, displaying a hint of dry humour.

To his surprise, she laughed, suddenly sounding as young as she appeared. Crossing the room, she sat on the side of the bed and gazed appraisingly at him, hands folded in her lap. Noticing the cat hair on the hem of her thobe, she tutted under her breath and reached to brush it away. 

"How do you feel?" she asked, reaching towards his bandages.

When he flinched away, regarding her with mingled suspicion and distrust, she sighed and shook her head sadly.

"Ardeth," she said firmly, addressing him by his first name. "I must check the wounds. If I wanted you dead, dear man, you would be pushing up daisies in Hyde Park. Now sit still and stop being such a fusspot."

The quintessentially English sentiment, expressed in Arabic, made him smile despite himself. She had the same brisk tone Evelyn O'Connell used, a no-nonsense attitude that seemed universal amongst British women of a certain class. Cool and remarkably gentle, her hands, slightly callused in places, peeled back the bandages. 

"Where am I?" he asked. "And how did I get here?"

"We're at my manor house," she replied. "A rather earnest young police constable took it upon himself to call when one of the neighbours reported the racket you made rolling about on the floor with Khepri. I thought a change of scenery best while my odd job man repairs the floor, the stairs, the banister and the bullet holes in the walls. I drove us over – I've just bought one of those marvellous new Ford cars. I'm afraid you conked right out, and I hadn't the heart to wake you."

Making a small, satisfied sound, she balled the stained bandages and ran her fingers across his chest. Catching her hands, skin tingling, Bey risked a glance down, expecting to see a swollen, weeping collection of purpled gashes and clotted blood. To his amazement, the flesh was whole save for pinkish scars. 

"By Jove," she breathed, sounding as surprised as he felt, pulling her hands from his to prod at the healed area. "It's good stuff, that ointment. Boots the chemist would pay a mint for that."

Bemused, Ardeth watched her expression alter from incredulity to satisfaction, to something approaching awe. The preternatural white lady of the previous night seemed absent, replaced by an altogether more natural, earthly version of the same woman. She seemed astounded by her own abilities. Her voice, measured, pleasant and educated, lacked the strange resonance, and she no longer glowed with an inner luminance. Rather, her power was hidden, nestled away in the core of her being until it was needed. She knew and understood the value of image and theatrics. 

Running a fingertip along the arc of the largest scar that ran across his right pectoral, features alight with curiosity, she stopped as she saw the minute change in Bey's expression. Sudden mischief sparking in her eyes, she lay the entire flat of her hand against his chest, slowly stroking back and forth.

"Do I frighten you?" she asked, shifting a little closer, feeling his heartbeat increase beneath her palm. 

"No," he answered, daring to meet her gaze.

Lips curling in a sly smile that revealed even, pearly teeth, Rhiannon Ward chuckled archly, grazing the knuckles of her left hand over the tattoo just below his diaphragm. 

"Do you want me to?"

A brief moment of consternation exploded behind the Med-Jai's black eyes, coloured by the merest shade of involuntary desire. Folding his hands around her wrists, he firmly removed them from his chest and sat back.

"I would prefer some answers," he said calmly.

"Ask away," she shrugged, rising to fetch a chair. _You're a brave man, Ardeth Bey… and remarkably strong of will and character. Interesting…_

Seating herself a respectable distance away, she crossed her ankles, quirking an eyebrow at him. Throwing back the bedcovers, Ardeth swung his legs over the side, quickly deciding against attempting to stand as his knees seemed not to want to cooperate. 

"What are you?" he asked.

Rhiannon spread her hands disarmingly, and flicked a glance at the tapestry bellpull on the wall. Jerked by invisible hands, it caused a muffled brass chime elsewhere in the manor house. 

"Breakfast?" she enquired cheerfully. Without waiting for him to reply, she quoted, "I am yesterday, today and tomorrow, and I have the power to be born a second time. I am the divine hidden soul who created the gods and gives sepulchral meals to the denizens of the deep, the place of the dead, and heaven… She is I, and I am she!"

Recognising the passage from the Book of the Dead, Bey frowned, a dark indent appearing between his brows. The section referred to reincarnation, though definitions of exactly whom or what was reborn had caused vehement squabbles between Med-Jai scholars for generations. 

"You are a reincarnation?" he hazarded. "That would explain your…"

"Contradictory demeanour?" she supplied helpfully. "Knowledge of sorcery and dead languages? Well, yes… but not quite accurate. I'm something a little different to Evie O'Connell or that dreadful slut Meela… don't look quite so shocked, sayadi – you can hardly necromantically reanimate a Creature like Imhotep in the British Museum and nobody notice. A bit like thundering through the streets in a runaway double decker with several smelly mummy warriors on your tail. No, to put it bluntly, in layman's terms, I'm an avatar. The avatar of Isis."

Ardeth blinked at the revelation, the concept unfamiliar to him. The reincarnation of powerful figures from the thirteen dynasties was an accepted fact by the Med-Jai, each prophecy or proclamation of rebirth monitored for veracity and possible adverse consequences. The prospect of a goddess descending to earth through a bodily form was difficult to grasp. 

"You are the queen of heaven? The goddess of magic, sister to Osiris?" he asked, incredulous. "She who stole Ra's secret name and powers?"

"Ah, yes, that," she frowned, waving a hand dismissively. "Yes and no. Every few centuries, or millennia, as it suits Her, Isis chooses to be born of flesh and continue Her work on earth. It's hard to explain in simple words, but the upshot is I'm both Rhiannon Ward and Isis – my soul is twin, two essences in the one vessel."

At that moment, a polite knock sounded at the door and a starch-aproned maid entered, bearing a tray filled with clinking Wedgwood china. Not in the least ruffled by the sight of a half-dressed, tattooed Bedouin sitting on an unmade bed in the same room as her mistress, she placed the tray on the dresser, bobbed a quick curtsy, and left. It was only after the door clicked to behind her that Ardeth realised her shadow had a switching feline tail.

"Tea?" Rhiannon asked, pouring milk into a bone china cup. "And there's toast, eggs, sausage… and bacon… ah… oh dear… I really must speak to Layla. This is her idea of a joke – she knows full well pork is off the menu as far as you're concerned…. Where was I?"

Jumping as a cup and saucer materialised in his hand, almost spilling the scalding contents into his lap, Ardeth admitted to himself that the food smelled good. His stomach growled sulkily, reminding him he had not eaten in over twelve hours. The tray appeared on the nightstand with a barely audible pop, plate masked by a shining silver cover with a loop handle in the centre. 

"You were explaining how the goddess is bound to you… or you to her," he said, turning the concept over and over in his mind.

"It does get a little confusing, doesn't it?" she observed, with a rueful smile. "I don't know where Rhiannon ends and She begins. You could say I'm a goddes-in-training. I've learnt it's best not to think too hard about it – it only ends up giving me an atrocious migraine, and these days when I get into a snit, I could accidentally level a few streets… which is not really cricket."

She broke off and took a long mouthful of hot, sweet tea, giving a small, thankful sigh. The humour and animation abruptly faded from her countenance, leaving her looking pierrette doll fragile and unbearably young. Her eyes remained old, fathomless and heavy with the weight of countless centuries of knowledge as they turned to rest on the Med-Jai commander. 

"I have all Her knowledge up here," she said colourlessly, tapping her index finger to her left temple. "Which is a bit like trying to cram the great library of Alexandria into a pocket book."

Blowing on her tea, she watched the steam curl upwards and disperse on the air, huddled inside her exquisitely-embroidered thoth like a child in her mother's Sunday best clothes. 

"Why are you telling me this, lady?" Ardeth asked, chilled by the sudden change in her mood.

Shell delicate, the teacup creaked alarmingly as her fingers tightened around it, shattering as the pressure became too great. The glittering shards of china and hot tea floated on the air and imploded, disappearing without trace. Brushing stray specks from her lap, the goddess looked up, eyes momentarily flashing liquid gold.

"Because, Med-Jai, I'm not the only avatar. There is another, and he wants to steal my powers for his own ends. His name is Runihura, and he killed those people back in Egypt. He was after me."

She sighed, gaze distant and troubled, hands knotted into white-knuckled bunches in her lap. When she spoke again, her voice was low and harsh, a razor slash of pain.

"I've confronted him once, before he became empowered, as I have become from the Horn. I thought I'd killed him, but I was obviously mistaken. He must have survived and found the talisman he needed. He is the avatar of Set, god of chaos… I knew it was him when I found out how those people had died."

She stood and crossed the room, the folds of her thoth swirling huskily around her ankles. 

"Much as I'm loath to admit it, I need your help, Ardeth Bey – if ever there was a cause worthy of the Med-Jai and their holy covenant, it is this. I can remember generations of your people stretching back to before there were pharaohs, before the first foundation was carved at Giza. Runihura means to rob me of my powers and break open the gates to the Underworld, bringing death and chaos to the world." She paused and a shadow passed darkly over her face. "I'm human and therefore fallible, despite the fact She has chosen to manifest through me. I can't outwit him alone. He needs a sacred artefact to disempower me and claim my magic as his – the Throne of Isis. And he can only perform the spell at the Temple at Hamunaptra, the dead city you and your kin have sworn to defend. I said my business was no concern of yours, but now we're in this together, whether we like it or not."

*


	3. God Of Chaos

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The Hilton Hotel, London

The bellhop tugged nervously at his gold-trimmed collar as the elevator droned upwards towards the penthouse suite. He looked down at the new leather carrying case at his feet, wondering why it made him uneasy. Supple oxblood leather, fastened with a monogrammed clasp, it was the sort of item any gentleman of means had in their possession. Rubbing at his buttons with the cuff of his wine red jacket, making sure they shone, he glanced at it again. Nose wrinkling, he jumped as the elevator chimed and sighed to a halt, the brass needle on the floor indicator bumping the last number on the dial. Pulling back the concertina mesh door, he stepped out into the landing, gingerly carrying the case. He was quite certain it was not supposed to smell like last year's leaf mould and cold, stony damp places. 

Approaching the door to the penthouse, he bit back a yelp as something moved inside the case with a sickening lurch. Dropping it, he leapt away, back pressed against the corridor wall. Eyes saucer huge, the chinstrap of his jaunty, brocade-edged cap hooked beneath his nose, he stared at the unremarkable carrying case. When it did not begin to rock, or burst open and spill forth anything with teeth, he heaved a huge sigh. Feeling unspeakably stupid, he shook his head self-consciously, peeled himself away from the wall and picked it up again. Trotting to the door, he raised his hand to knock, jumping violently as it swung inwards on a darkened room. A tall, cadaverously thin man with eyes like tin pennies appeared at the doorway, a tailored suit hanging awkwardly from his sparse frame.

"Ummm, your case, sir!" he announced, remembering to keep his tone polite, with a suitable amount of deference.

Extending a spidery hand, the appendage seemingly disembodied in the gloom, the thin man took the case without comment or acknowledgement. Though he seemed indifferent to his attire, the bellhop could not help feeling a Saville Row suit was not his garment of choice, rather it was a ploy to blend with his surroundings. After several seconds of waiting for a tip, grinning inanely all the while, the bellhop watched as he turned away and closed the door. 

"Thank you, sir!" he called, finding his legs carrying him away.

It was only as the elevator door exhaled shut behind him that he realised the occupant of the penthouse had not blinked once, pewter eyes lifeless. Shuddering, the bellhop was suddenly glad he had not received a tip, wondering what he might have been required to give up in exchange. Glancing at the clock mounted on the elevator wall, he resolved to visit the kitchens and beg a measure of cooking brandy from the chef to calm his nerves.

Inside the suite, the attenuated man slowly scissored towards the main room, the case dangling from his long hand. Wordlessly, he placed it on the occasional table next to the plush armchair, waiting for instructions. The curtains were tightly closed against the bright morning sunshine, leaving the room in darkness. Hands folded, ankles pressed together, he stood unnaturally still, poised like a resting mamba in the gloom. The carrying case juddered, a faint, impatient hissing coming from the interior. Thickening, swirling like ink dropped in water, the darkness intensified, coalescing into a midnight-robed figure wearing a beaten silver mask. 

Bowing from the waist, averting his dull eyes deferentially, the thin man blinked once, quicksilver scales rippling across his gaunt features. 

"Sebak, your eyes serve me well, as always." The voice behind the mask was velvet rubbed across stone, deep and cultured, implicitly threatening despite the congenial tone. 

Dipping his head once more, Sebak accepted the praise without comment, gesturing towards the carrying case. The hissing grew louder, more insistent. With a gesture of his leather-gloved hand, the masked man snapped open the clasp. Several shovel-shaped reptilian heads poked over the sides, tasting the air with flickering purple tongues. A sinuous, gleaming ebony mass, the asps emerged from their temporary home and surged eagerly down the legs of the occasional table. Holding out his arms as if to a child, the hooded man allowed them to wind around his forearms and coil in his lap. Stroking them in turn, unconcerned by their venomous bite, he turned his expressionless silvered countenance towards Sebak.

"The Med-Jai chieftain, he will prove a hindrance to my plans. Because of him, She knows I live and work against Her. Kill him."

Bearing hollow, needle fangs, the djinn hissed, wattles of scaly iridescent skin flaring at his throat. Pupils flashing elliptical, he bobbed his head and dematerialised in a rapidly dispersing twist of grey smoke. Smiling behind his mask Runihura settled back into the easy chair, listening to the quiet, contented hissing of his familiars.

*


	4. Swordplay & Serpents

*

*

"I trust you feel better now, sayadi?" Rhiannon Ward asked solicitously, examining a rapier from the rack on the panelled wall of the large ballroom. Experimentally, she swished the weapon with the ease of practise, found it lacking and selected another. "A hearty breakfast does wonders for the constitution."

"I am quite well, lady," Bey returned gravely, gaze tracking around the room, taking in the floor-to-ceiling leadlit windows, sprung, beeswax polished wooden floor and square pillars. 

Another exceptionally beautiful Tiraz hanging dominated the wall to his back, and he could not resist stepping up for a closer look. His silver-trimmed tunic had been returned to him not long after breakfast, freshly laundered and mysteriously lacking any signs of damage. To his surprise, he had discovered he did indeed feel rested and fully restored. At some point during the morning, Ward had changed from her flowing Bedouin thobe into rusty brown tailored trousers and a fitted, cap-sleeved cream blouse, hair fashionably pinned up at her neck. Ardeth found the change remarkable, only the occasional flash of her tattooed wrist and propensity to rattle off instructions in Coptic indicating she was anything other than a well to-do professional woman. 

__

Do I believe her? he asked himself, turning from the Tiraz hanging to watch her test the balance of a rapier. Lower lip held between her teeth, she squinted down the blade and gave a minimal nod of satisfaction when it proved to her liking. _Do I commit myself and my people to helping her? Isis was the most beloved goddess, worshipped long after other gods fell from favour… but is this woman really Her?_

Glancing around the ballroom for signs of the twin feline djinn, whose watchful silence was distinctly unnerving, he found they were almost alone. Something warm and furry brushed against his left ankle. Ghost purred loudly and placed a small velvet paw on the toe of his boot. 

"Do you fence, by any chance?"

Ardeth looked up to find the avatar standing less than five foot away, tapping the rapier against her calf with an air of nonchalance. Lifting the slender weapon, she took hold of the tip and flexed it, then slashed the air left to right with an audible snapping. 

"I'm not familiar with that weapon, no," he answered. 

"Pity," Rhiannon sniffed, reverting to English. "It's been months since I've had a decent sparring match… I tend to scare all the chaps off. I'm afraid they don't like getting beaten. Male ego, etcetera."

Balancing the rapier tip first on her index finger, she flipped it and it transformed into a dazzling damask steel scimitar with a carved ivory hilt. Catching the hilt with ease, she brought the blade close to her face, reflection magnified and distorted, eyes gold in the blue white steel, and looked to the Med-Jai.

"No hocus-pocus," she promised. "Just natural ability… that is of course if you know how to use that clunky great sword?"

Bey's jaw tightened, fingers twitching towards his sword hilt as his Bedouin pride rose in response to the implied lack of skill. Jonathan Carnahan had once ill advisedly asked the same question and found the blade at his throat milliseconds after the last syllable left his lips. As Mawlana of the Med-Jai, his skill with a blade had saved lives on many occasions, not least of all his own. Dampening the flare of temper, realising he was being tested, Ardeth inclined his head and gave a minimal, elegant shrug.

"I have some small skill," he declared, drawing his scimitar from his sash. "And I believe it is time you lost a match, lady."

"Excellent," she exclaimed, with relish. Touching her brow to the flat of the blade, a respectful gesture to a worthy opponent, she twirled the weapon with a flick of her wrist. "En garde!"

As Ardeth had expected, Ward did not wait for him to make the first aggressive move, she drove straight in. Clashing between them at waist height, the sharp blades skittered and parted as they moved back, circling. Scimitar held out defensively, protecting the vulnerable chest and abdomen, Bey leapt forward. Dancing frenetically back and forth, the blades shrieked, thrust, parry and counterstrike. Dropping down to a squat, razor metal whistling scant inches above her head, Rhiannon rolled over and onto her feet as the blade clanged against the wooden floor.

"Why, that's not very sporting!" she cried, feigning shock as she struck back, forcing Bey's blade close to his shoulder.

"Am I not losing easily enough?" he retorted, shifting the angle of his blade to thrust her away.

"On the contrary," she laughed, staggering as the momentum nearly knocked her over. "I haven't had so much fun in ages. This goddess stuff is all well and good, but a girl doesn't get much chance to let her hair down."

Feinting towards his left flank, she suddenly slashed for his right thigh, a move that if performed in earnest would incapacitate an enemy. Blocking the blow, Ardeth retaliated by striking hard at the middle of her blade. She grimaced as the force travelled through the hilt and up her arm, loosening her grip. A sheen of perspiration gleamed on her pale brow, stray strands of inky hair escaping from the neatly-pinned style to fall over her eyes. As she blew them away, Ardeth realised that she had kept her word. She was strong and undeniably skilful, but not unnaturally so. Her physical strength came from toned, regularly exercised muscles, not sorcery. The calluses on her hands were from hours of practise with a rapier. Even without her deity powers, she was a formidable swordswoman.

"You know, you really ought to smile more," she commented, almost thoughtfully, blade arcing up to block the next attack. "One day you'll frown, the wind will change, and _poof_! You'll be stuck like that."

Upper body listing from the hips to avoid downswipes, snapping left to right, she ploughed forward, the cacophony of ringing metal intensifying. 

"Besides," she added conversationally, between deafening clashes. "The brooding mystery man image does get a tad boring, though I suppose you're used to it doing the trick with the ladies. And please don't get all haughty – priests, warriors and accountants, they've all been saying they're too busy since Allah decided he'd claim the credit for the cosmos. And they're all fibbing… they're men, after all. By your air of exasperation, my dear Mr Bey, I'd bet you've got a mother or an aunt telling you to marry and produce heirs. Male heirs, naturally."

She gave an irritated little snort, nose wrinkling disdainfully as she tried and failed to whip out Ardeth's legs. Jumping aside, knees bent to absorb the impact, Bey wondered if she was attempting to provoke him or just analysing his character. Logical reasoning did not always apply to the fusion of woman and goddess, the amalgamation of twentieth century western ideals and millennia of female empowerment.

"The concept irks you, lady?" he asked, deciding that deciphering her motives was probably beyond him at the present time. 

"Patriarchy irks me," she responded crisply. 

Sharp edges juddering against each other, the blades unexpectedly locked at the hilts, each combatant automatically bringing their weight to bear. Planting her feet firmly, Rhiannon's knuckles whitened as she resisted Ardeth's larger mass.

"And you would rather the world be run by women?" he questioned with faint incredulity, waiting for her to tire and break the deadlock.

Ward's lips twitched upwards at the corners and she lifted her free shoulder in a small shrug, legs and back braced, gaze set with concentration.

"I can think of worse things."

Unexpectedly, Bey's dark eyes sparkled with humour and he smiled, teeth healthy white against his dusky skin. The change of expression, from guarded and serious, to wryly amused, seemed to strip years from him. In that instant he shucked the responsibility and duty he wore like a second, invisible djellaba. Suddenly, he threw his weight forward at an angle, jarring Rhiannon off balance. With a dismayed gasp, she toppled backwards and fell flat on her back, arms flung out above her head. Her weapon bounced noisily, hilt first, on the sprung wooden floor and away out of reach. Flipping his scimitar, Ardeth dropped to one knee and brought the point to rest at the hollow of her throat, dimpling the skin.

"Do you yield?" he asked, unable to resist applying a little more pressure to the blade.

Propping herself up on her elbows, features animated with exertion, green eyes dancing merrily, she chuckled softly.

"Never," she announced pleasantly. "Though I have lost the match… and if you move too quickly at this precise moment, I fear you may lose your head. Layla, don't bite the guests – it's rude."

A hot puff of breath on his neck caused Bey to look around, a huge golden paw appearing in his peripheral vision. The djinn was directly behind him, cleaning her great canines with a long, sloppy pink tongue. Whiskers lifting as she growled, tail describing slow figures of eight in the air, her steel claws popped with an audible click. 

"I don't recall _that_ being allowed in a fencing match," Ardeth commented levelly, aware the creature was itching to tear him open like a ripe melon.

"Quite," Ward agreed, not in the least put out. "Though I think you'll find moving your sword from my throat will make her more amenable."

Gaze tracking over his shoulder to the djinn, she spoke quietly to her in Coptic, the tone placating and somewhat affectionate. Carefully, making a show of holding up his free hand and turning the point away, Bey placed his scimitar on the floor beside him. Layla contented herself with cuffing him about the head lightly and padded moodily away, disappearing at the door. Rising to his feet, he obligingly reached down and pulled Rhiannon upright. Warm and slightly moist from the match, her grip was firm and felt reassuringly earthly except for an indistinct sensation of neutral difference. Wondering if the tenuous feeling was due to his prior knowledge of her powers, or something that occurred anyway when she touched another human being, Ardeth inclined his head.

"Do I pass your test, lady?" he asked, bending to retrieve his scimitar.

"What makes you think you were being tested?" she said with a raised eyebrow and a half smile. "I simply fancied a fencing match."

Pointing at her fallen weapon, she sent it zipping through the air to the wooden sword rack on the wall. As it reached its destination, it blurred and reverted back to a willow-thin rapier.

"I have a feeling things are never so simple where you are concerned," Bey observed dryly.

"I shall take that as a compliment," she returned with mock gravity.

Despite his better judgement, Ardeth found he was warming to Rhiannon Ward, becoming accustomed to her intellectual dexterity and banter. He could easily see how she had earned the epithet 'frighteningly intelligent'. He had no way of knowing how much of her demeanour was a front designed to put him at ease, but perceived no falseness, no malign intent. 

"Some tea, I think," she announced. "Then down to business. All pleasant diversions aside, sayadi, we have a lot to discuss. It's only a matter of time before Runihura discovers I know of his survival, then things are going to get a little hairy. And I'd much rather that didn't happen in a densely populated city like London. He has scant regard for life."

Nodding agreement, recalling the devastation wrought in Cairo by Imhotep on his first awakening, Bey went to follow Ward as she strode towards the ballroom exit. Unlike other British and American women he had met, she did not expect doors to be held open for her. Without warning, she spun about, the polished wood beneath her boot heels squeaking. 

"How dare He!" she hissed, and her hands came up, blazing wheels of scorching white light exploding from the palms.

The bay window shattered as something leapt through it, shards of razor glass glinting as they sowed the floor with sharpness. Unfurling constrictive muscle, serpentine coils and scraping reflective scales rustle-scraping, the air filled with an enraged hissing. 

*


	5. Glimpse Of The Underworld

*

*

Screeching, Ghost bared her small needle teeth, snowy fur standing on end. Taking a running leap, the Persian cat clawed her way up the Tiraz wall hanging and clung to the top, hissing furiously all the while. Hair and clothes powdered with broken glass, Ardeth instinctively dropped back, grabbing at his Brownings. A nightmarish blending of cobra and lizard, the djinn's reptillian bulk filled the ballroom, hooded head brushing the vaulted ceiling. Jet scales glistening like oil, Sebak's mouth opened, red mebranes unfurling at the corners, and he spat. A stream of pale green venom hit the polished floor at Ardeth's feet. The wood began to bubble, splinter and dissolve. Jumping aside, the Bedouin took aim and shot out the creature's eyes.

"Khepri! Layla!" the summons boomed at a preternatural volume.

The twin sphinx materialised at their mistress's side, steely talons extended, and leapt on the larger djinn, tearing at his limbs. Roaring, Sebak shook them off, spitting a virulent gob that struck Layla, raising a yelp of true pain. Her flank smoked, golden fur and compact muscle charred back to the bone. Wheeling about, Rhiannon drew back her arm, a fierce corona of light swarming around her clenched fist, and let fly. Streaking comet-like through the air, trailing crackling molten sparks, the sorcerous missile struck the serpent djinn, taking off his head. Bouncing heavily on the floor, leaving smouldering indentations, it exploded messily. 

"Bugger! Missed!" the exclamation of dismay reached Ardeth's ears through a snapping haze of multi-hued light. It did not appear like she had missed her target to him.

The sentiment proved justified when the wiggling neck stump began to bulge, the flesh crawling and shifting, and spewed forth a gout of writhing, knotted asps. Momentarily frozen, Ardeth watched with fascinated horror as countless serpent bodies uncoiled, quickly spreading to form a fast-moving living wave that surged across the floor. With a nauseating wet pop, twin heads sprouted from the djinn's truncated stump, webbed by a translucent membrane. To the Med-Jai's astonishment, the torrent of snakes flowed past Rhiannon, leaving her untouched.

_They're coming for me! _ he realised, backing up, shooting into the inky blanket of cold-blooded bodies until his Brownings clicked emptily. 

Huge, worryingly-sharp teeth closed on the back of his bandoleer and he found himself dangling several feet above the floor. Breath hot against his neck, Khepri huffed disgustedly, hooked claws anchoring her into the ceiling. Ardeth could only watch as asps carpeted the entire floor with irridescent blackness. Those that came too close to the avatar of Isis burst into flames, burning to crumbling twists of scaly hide. Eyes blazing gold, she was surrounded by a throbbing light of fury, each movement of hand or limb leaving sparkling silver traceries in the air. 

"Your master is a coward!" she screamed in the ancient tongue, facing the gigantic djinn. "He cannot kill me, so He targets a defenceless human man! Little wonder He shrinks from the Light of Ra!"

Snake eyes unblinking, Sebak hissed, twin heads bobbing on reticulated muscular necks. An intangible gathering of power burgeoned around Rhiannon Ward, reality seeming to tremble and shift in its wake. Cobra hoods flaring, the djinn reared back and shot two long, thin streamers of caustic venom at the Med-Jai, who swung like a pendulum from Khepri's grasp. Instinctively crossing his arms over his face, Ardeth gave a startled yell as his sometime rescuer sprang out of range, carrying him like a queen-cat bore a helpless kitten. Hissing deafeningly, the serpent djinn's dagger fangs clacked, all four eyes swivelling to fix on his master's hated enemy. 

"Do not think Set's protection will save you," Rhiannon said, her voice resounding throughout the ballroom, drowning out the clamourous hiss of asps. "Osiris! Lord of the Underworld, hear thy consort! Anubis, Weigher of Souls, take this creature and judge him!"

She passed her hand before her, fingers splayed. The room began to shake, the very foundations of the old manor house groaning. Motes of plaster rained down from the ceiling, peppering the mass of snakes with white flakes. Sudden terror showed in Sebak's shrinking pupils and trumpeting roar as the floor gaped beneath him, revealing a bottomless chasm lined with flickering cobalt blue flames.

"I condemn you, Sebak, creature of Set, child of evil" the goddess decreed. "To everlasting torment – you shall be devoured by Beby each morning and regenerate each night. You shall never know the peace of the blessed."

She gestured to the rip between worlds. The flames suddenly flashed higher, licking the white plaster ceiling, and swarmed over the serpent djinn, dragging him towards the pit. Limbs wreathed in eldritch fire, Sebak opened his mouths to howl, only for his throats to fill with clinging flames that consumed him from within. Acrid smoke leaked from eye sockets, ear holes and from twin screeching maws, chinks of flame showing through overlapping scales. Glowing like a grotesque jack-o-lantern, the djinn was dragged down, great curls of wood gouged up by his desperately scrabbling claws. Sucked in, relentlessly pulled towards oblivion, the asps swirled down in a seemingly endless stream. The fissure in reality gaped wide, sending powerful eddies rushing outwards in decreasing ripples of matter and energy, and snapped shut like a closed book. 

Rhiannon lowered her hands and the maelstrom of searing light and tearing wind died away, her eyes fading to a clear, hard emerald. Uncerimoniously, Khepri opened her mouth and dropped Ardeth, unhooking her great claws to land in a crouch next to her injured doppleganger. Hastily bending his knees to absorb the impact, the Med-Jai chieftan surveyed the smouldering ruin of the ballroom. Something dropped heavily onto his shoulder and he started violently. Ghost grumbled throatily in his ear and slithered into his arms. 

"Are you hurt, sayadi?" 

Ardeth shook his head wordlessly, looking at the foot-wide holes in the floor, the shattered windows and curling trails of drifting grey smoke. There was no trace of the fathomless chasm that had swallowed Runihura's djinn. Rhiannon tutted under her breath at the mess, a house-proud Englishwoman, but her eyes remained glacial, green as the spring Nile and merciless as the flood. She turned to Bey, each step producing a faint, white-hot hiss, skin glowing faintly.

"So you see what I, no _we_ are up against," she said calmly, waving an encompassing hand. "It's begun far sooner than I imagined."

Moving to tend to Layla, she placed a hand on the djinn's flank, murmuring wordless comfort as one might to a child. A soothing silver glow emanated from her palm and the creature's whines of pain eased. Gently caressing the sphinx's massive lion head, she looked up at Ardeth.

"We must go to Egypt at once," she announced. "Time is against us – I must get the Throne before He does. I wouldn't put it past Runihura not to take His temper out on your people, sayadi. He knows of the Med-Jai just as I do."

An icy stab of fear lanced through Bey as he thought of friends, family and compatriots. Throughout the dynasties, there had been attempts to destroy the Med-Jai, but never by a vengeful god against whom they had no defence. Meeting Ward's steady gaze, hiding his emotions behind a composed mask, he nodded firmly.

"To Egypt, as allies," he declared.

"Allies," Rhiannon echoed.

*

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That's all for this installment. Next!

The Duchess xxxGRRR!


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